


before something breaks that cannot be fixed

by cactuslesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Neck Kissing, Slow Dancing, Soulmates, again not the focus but it's mentioned, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactuslesbian/pseuds/cactuslesbian
Summary: “Would you like to dance?” Agnes asks eventually. Her voice is soft and careful. Gertrude can feel the hesitation, like someone testing the waters.But the archivist is already standing, hand outstretched. “I’m not very good, I’m afraid.”
Relationships: Adelard Dekker & Gertrude Robinson, Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	before something breaks that cannot be fixed

**Author's Note:**

> LESBIAN TIME!!!!!

Music thrums gently through the too-thin walls of Agnes’ flat, carried in from a wedding reception taking place at the hotel next door and Gertrude finds her staring through her window with an absent look on her face. She simply hums in acknowledgment as Gertrude sits at the kitchen table across from her.

The last few meetings have taken place in very, very public places. Places where the two of them could fade into background noise and be utterly anonymous places where if one or the other tried something, however, it would be at least in front of witnesses. The plans and collaborations and catching up (should there even be time enough for such luxuries) discussed in soft innocuous tones over coffee so hot it left Gertrude’s mouth numb for hours after. She’d always drink it, though. 

It’s the first time Gertrude has ever seen her flat and she decides that it suits her, somehow. It’s small, but not cramped. The parted curtains are a shade of pale blue and there’s a shelf full of teacups and mugs with varying patterns and designs. Even on the other end of the room, Gertrude can clearly see that none of them have been used recently if ever, some still have price tags on them. A bookshelf holds several volumes with seared fingerprints on the spines. Other than that, the apartment looks fresh from a catalog. Neat and utterly impersonal.

“Would you like some tea or anything?” Agnes asks without pulling her gaze away from the window.

Gertrude idly taps the little paper cups she’s brought with her, the steam curling out of the little openings for the first time since she bought it, reheated by Agnes’ warmth. There are two cups of coffee, one hazelnut with two sugars and a plain black coffee with room for milk.

Agnes looks at her and smiles. It is, like most of Agnes’ smiles; muted, quiet, radiant without even trying and despite everything. Warm despite that being an antithesis to her god. Gertrude’s heart beats a little faster and she tries deliberately to ignore it.

“How are your assistants?” Agnes asks softly.

“Eric’s been taking time off to help Mary with the baby. And the new one, Michael, has taken to following me like a duckling. And Emma is... Emma.” Gertrude answers. She takes a sip of her searing hot coffee and looks out the window as well.

The reception has bled out of the building and Gertrude can see a man and woman holding each other on the sidewalk, moving with each other in a gentle slow dance. Gertrude can’t help but notice that Agnes looks almost wistful for just a moment.

“Michael is the young one, right?” Agnes looks at her again, eyes reproachful. “You shouldn’t have let him take the job.”

Gertrude shrugs and doesn’t defend her actions. Michael Shelley is only eighteen and much, much too young to have his life signed away to the archives. There are times when Gertrude will look at him and wonder if she’d ever been that young, that naive. But Michael is just as desperate for answers as she had been, once upon a time, and if he thinks the Eye can get him there then so be it. “James is the one who brought him on. I didn’t have much say in the matter.”

Agnes says nothing and the silence lingers as she continues to watch the couple on the sidewalk. His nose is in her hair, her hand resting on the small of his back. The song has changed now, some fast-paced thing entirely unsuited to a slow dance, but they don’t seem to notice, let alone mind.

“And things with the lightless flame?” 

“Are you asking as my friend or as the Archivist?”

“Both, probably.” Gertrude states.

“More of the usual. Diego thought to chase a Leitner he figured could separate us, but it was a dead end.” Agnes shrugs, fingernail idly tracing words on the coffee lid. There’s an edge of resignation to her words, Gertrude knows full well that they’ve never really stopped looking for a way to undo the spidersilk threads that bind them together.

Gertrude can’t help but ask, “would you do it? If you could?”

“You know I wouldn’t.” 

Gertrude does know. But the reassurance (if that is in fact what it is) is nice. 

Sometimes she thinks she knows Agnes better than she knows herself; each and every freckle that forms constellations across her face and shoulders, the way her hair falls in loose vibrant waves, the comfort she will find in the weight of a black coffee with room for milk. The burning that has never once stopped since she attached herself to what she was sure was a threat has grown from discomforting to reassuring, almost. For all that Agnes burns and simmers, is worshipped, she’s alone in the way that only someone who’s never been seen for themselves can be.

“I like watching them. They look... happy. Weightless.” Agnes admits. Gertrude can’t be sure if she’s specifically talking about the couple on the sidewalk who are still doing slow revolutions around each other or just people in general. Through the window Gertrude can see the woman rise to her tiptoes in order to kiss him and Gertrude almost knows what Agnes means. 

It’s different in her eyes; not quite weightless or carefree but stable and anchored to each other safely. Gertrude has never known such assurance and she too can’t help but envy them. “They’re probably drunk.” Gertrude informs as she sits back in her chair and sips carefully at her searing coffee.

The silence lingers long after Agnes hums a soft reply of acknowledgment.

“Would you like to dance?” Agnes asks eventually. Her voice is soft and careful. Gertrude can feel the hesitation, like someone testing the waters. 

But the archivist is already standing, hand outstretched. “I’m not very good, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind.” Agnes takes her hand in hers, gently intertwining her fingers with Gertrude’s as she speaks.

It’s not the first time she’s touched her, but the sensation is still new enough to leave her heart skipping beats as the deep dense heat settles into her hands, the spaces between her fingers. Not enough to burn in any tangible way, but enough to let the reality of the situation land. The warmth Agnes gives off when they touch is so different than the warmth that Gertrude feels secondhand, but it’s thrilling in a dangerous sort of way.

Wordlessly, Agnes takes the lead and Gertrude lets her; following her steps. She’s better than she’d thought she’d be and Gertrude occasionally finds herself stepping on her toes. Agnes says nothing if it hurts, simply lets her hand rest against the curve of Gertrude’s waist with featherlight touch. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” Gertrude finds herself asking.

Agnes actually laughs, the sound high and bright, and tips her head toward the corner where an old teddy bear sits atop a high shelf. It’s fur is a patchwork of scorch marks but it’s paws bear the worst of the burns, blackened to a crisp. Gertrude can’t help but snort aloud.

“He wasn’t the best partner, but that’s neither here nor there.” she sounds so unbothered at having never touched or been touched by another human being before Gertrude, enough that a third party would likely believe her even. But the Archivist knows better.

Agnes is lonely and she’s been lonely for a long time. 

Sometimes Gertrude thinks that must be why their souls had bled into each other as easily as they had (or even at all, really) Sometimes she wonders if one of both of them could have been destroyed had her ritual not worked as well as it did. But they’re here, dancing quietly to music heard second hand in a flat on a Sunday night. It’s almost normal.

Gertrude has been lonely too. Long as she can remember, really. A different kind of lonely, yes, a loneliness that has come from a deep sense of being unwanted, a lonely that gradually turned into bitter and searing ambition and spite working in tandem, but lonely nonetheless.

The woman across from her tilts her head and for a moment Gertrude has to remind herself that Agnes can’t read her mind. Regardless, the hand on her waist grows just a little more firm in its position, a little more secure and despite the heat that’s making her forehead bead with sweat, Gertrude shivers.

“May I?” Agnes asks softly and with that same trepidation that had colored her words when she had first asked Gertrude to dance. When the Archivist nods mutely, Agnes closes the space between them ever so gently, moving her arms to gently circle Gertrude’s waist in a loose embrace and Gertrude thoughtlessly does the same as they continue to gently sway. “Let me know if it’s too much, alright?”

“Mhm,” 

Agnes lowers her head and lets it rest against Gertrude’s chest, ear pressed to her sternum and she knows without asking that she’s listening to her heart as it beats. She also knows that this is the closest anyone has been to Agnes since the day she was born and tries not to resent the Watcher (at least not any more than usual) for gifting her that knowledge.

Gertrude’s world had been simpler when it was black and white; her needing to excise a threat to the world, clear cut good vs evil. But then she’d learned more and more about Agnes and the Powers and herself and her world began to blend into so many shades of gray that she’s trying to make sense of, shades that shift constantly and without warning. The only thing that’s certain is that when push comes to shove she will do what needs to be done.

But there’s a moment where Agnes’ mouth rests on her pulse and she gives the skin of her neck in an almost experimental kiss. The skin burns but it doesn’t hurt and her arms prickle with goosebumps as Gertrude lets out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. Agnes stops, looks up at her with those wide and searing amber eyes, “did you want me to stop?”

Gertrude is about to answer that no, she doesn’t want her to stop, that she’d let Agnes kiss her for hours if she’d just asked when the harsh beeping of her pager sends her tumbling back to reality. Adelard is the only person who ever pages her and by virtue of that alone she knows its urgent.

“You can use my phone,” Agnes offers as she steps back. She gently tucks a strand of Gertrude’s hair behind her ear and smiles lightly as her hand lingers just against Gertrude’s cheek, though the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

-

Gertrude and Adelard stand before a smoldering thing that is person-shaped but was not quite a person and maybe never was. 

It’s an agent of the stranger, or at least they think it is. Fire, they have found through trial and error, is usually a good bet for destroying these things. Unless they happen to be with the desolation, of course. Gertrude has a hand-shaped burn on her upper arm from one such encounter, Adelard’s left hand is discolored with a matching injury.

“You saw her again,” Adelard speaks softly and his tone holds no judgment. Gertrude however, hates how transparent he makes her feel. No one has ever seen her quite as Adelard does, save for maybe Agnes. He looks over at her, “There’s a burn on your shirt.”

When Gertrude looks down she sees the hand-shaped burn on her blouse, right at the waist where Agnes’ hand had rested, just visible under her cardigan and instinctively wraps it around her a little more securely before digging her cigarettes out of her pocket.

“Just-” Adelard sets his mouth in a line and stares into the fire, before he looks at her, “Just be careful with her, alright? Don’t forget what she is.”

“Hm,” Agnes affirms in a hum as she shields the lighter from the wind with her hand and lights her cigarette. She exhales a mouthful of smoke and tilts her head back to look at the clouds move through the night sky, “trust me, Adelard, I’m always careful.”

“I believe you,” though he doesn’t entirely _sound_ like he believes her.

It’s fair of him, though, she can’t deny that. Especially when there’s a remnant of Agnes’ hand still on her clothing and the way she gently hums the melody of the song they danced to in the car on the way home.

She knows what Agnes is, maybe even better than she did when she first began to look into incidents of burning and the young woman who always seemed to be the common thread between them. She knows intimately that Agnes is dangerous, maybe even more than the zealots who worship her, but she also knows that Agnes loves teacups and mugs, that she can watch people do mundane things in their mundane lives for hours on end, that her favorite book is still Charlotte’s Web.

Gertrude’s fingertips idly brush against her neck, tracing her pulse point and the spot where Agnes had kissed her. How easy would it have been for her to gamble with her life and attempt to incinerate the web that holds them together? That as soon as that was done, Agnes could reduce her to ash?

But she also remembers Agnes’ head against her chest and listening to the steady thrum of her heart beating. Gertrude, even a year or two ago, wouldn’t have thought twice about ending her, even if she had to die with her. There’s a real chance that any day now she’ll find something that will destroy Agnes, but leave Gertrude to live another day. 

But somehow she knows that even if they could kill each other with total assurance that they’d survive, Gertrude knows in the same part of her heart that flutters just a bit when Agnes smiles, that compels her to drink boiling coffee that peels the skin from the roof of her mouth, that they wouldn’t. 

At least not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly a LOT of this was based on that one quote where it's like "I never understood what made your lips on my neck an intimate affair. Until your teeth grazed my pulse and I realized. You could tear open my throat and make me bleed out in your arms. But instead, you choose to kiss" bc like. that is a perfect summation of gertrudeagnes to me, tbh
> 
> and also it's important to me that u know that   
> 1\. ronald sinclair won her that bear at a carnival when she was 12   
> 2\. his name is wilbur
> 
> thank you for reading!


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